


Sometimes I Fantasize About You Too (In The Daytime)

by dancer_of_the_hellfire_rumba



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Love, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, porn with little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23705977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancer_of_the_hellfire_rumba/pseuds/dancer_of_the_hellfire_rumba
Summary: Half drunk and tired, but not wanting the night to end, Sam and Y/n stumble in her house. They share some more booze, but she is too great, and Sam is too enamoured with how stunning she is, how every way she moves is captivating to him. So he decides to close the distance between them. Detailed smut with feeeeelings.
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	Sometimes I Fantasize About You Too (In The Daytime)

“Do you want any tea?” Shouldering off the jacket she’d been wearing, gently dropping it on the back of a chair. There are only two lights on, the one in the hall, and the one above the stove, the rest of the house covered in darkness.

“Tea? No,” he says, smiling at the thought almost. He places his own jacket on the counter, leaning against its edge with his hands deep in his jean pockets. He watches her in her kitchen, pouring a glass of water for herself, and drinking it slowly, throat bobbing up and down. Her shoulders are more relaxed, comfortable in the familiarity of her own home.

The radio’s been left on since god knows when, and it’s this jazzy sort of thing, something Dean would fall asleep upon hearing. It’s soft and melodic and warm, it seems to spill out of the speakers and into the room, filling every crevice with smooth trumpet playing. He watches her in the sway of the notes, glance up at him while she sips, lick her lips when she pulls the glass away from them, and placing it gently on the counter without breaking eye contact.

She’s… intoxicating.

“I have whiskey.” A visibly shaky breath is drawn in through her nose, a small smile on that heavenly mouth of hers. The light from over the stove leaves this dusty, old, orange glow on her skin, the side of her face, outlining her cheek and her long lashes, the bridge of her nose the curve of her mouth.

“That’s more like it, yeah.” Sam doesn’t really enjoy consuming hard liquor, but his heart feels split open, like his ribs are cracking, splitting wide, one by one like a door on a bird cage, opening and letting his heart tiptoe out in the world and explode in tendrils of confetti. He figures, if he feels like this, so full of a kind of powerful _energy_ like this one, so _alive_ , then he needs to calm down a little.

She moves closer to him, opening a cabinet, pulling a clear bottle off the shelf and a short glass. It makes a small, cold clunk against the marble counter, sloshing of liquid, more smooth jazz, a clock striking one in the morning, and then it’s held in front of him, the glass, sparkling eyes watching him behind it. He holds it securely, takes it from her, making sure to brush his fingers with her solidly, and linger, gaze locked on hers forever and a day, even as he tilts the glass in his mouth and takes a sip.

It burns on the way down, a soothing burn, accompanying the jazz with similar energy. He has to shut his eyes tightly and suck in a breath to alleviate it, sharing a smile with her. Hands bringing it up to her, he offers her a drink without words, but she smiles in that secret, confident smile of hers and pulls the bottle from the counter, still uncapped. Bottle brought to the air in ‘ _cheers_ ’, she takes a sip straight from it and laughs as it burns its way down her throat.

Sam grins along.

He holds the glass to his lip absentmindedly, thinking just how much he wants to press her against him entirely, skin to skin, bury his hands in her hair, kiss her until he forgets to breathe, forgets where he is, where he ends and she begins. The urge is stronger than it’s ever been, _maybe it’s the jazz_ –he can practically hear Dean’s sarcasm in his head. He chugs down the last of the whiskey, placing it on the counter next to him, right next to his jacket, shaking his head to lift the weight of the alcohol and let it go down smoother. A sigh.

Hand in the air, an offer. “Will you give me this dance?” Eyes already slightly drunk from the drinks they had before coming to her house, she takes another swig of whiskey, plants it on the table behind her, eyes still locked on his, and places her hand in his. “Only because you asked properly.”

Another grin.

Sam pulls her a little ways from the kitchen, closer to her dark living room, the side of her face illuminated by the street lamps outside, through her window. With a hand at her waist, his other in the air, holding hers loosely, he pulls her close, cheekbone to cheekbone (or, cheekbone to head because everybody is shorter than him), ducking close and shutting his eyes.

They sway gently, as trumpet shifts to sax. A shift of his fingers, reveling in her proximity, her hand in his, her _smell,_ Jesus fucking Christ. She’s so soft and warm, so close, only separated by a layer or two of clothes, he could have her right here, on this fucking floor if she’d let him.

“So you like jazz, then?” She asks, simply to prompt any conversation, to mock his lack of subtlety, he’s sure, even though he’d be okay with silence. But it’s alright, no spell is broken, his mouth feels like it tasted honey when he hears her voice anyways, and a smile splits his face in two. He chuckles lowly.

“Not quite, no,” he tells her, flexing his fingers over her waist just to remind himself (and her) he’s actually _holding her_. Shirt thin, flowery, soft, so close to the naked skin of her back, he wants it off, even if it looks great on her. He needs zero layers between them, just her on top of him, under him, all over, touching, kissing, close, _one_. “Just looking for excuses to be close to you.” It’s the whiskey talking. He doesn’t care.

“You don’t need excuses for that,” she says, and yeah, it’s _definitely_ the whiskey talking. A sigh.

They sway for a little while, her hand on his shoulder softly, so close to brushing the collar of his shirt. Both pretending that they know how to dance, that this means something, and it isn’t a strange new substitute for foreplay. Head pulls back only an inch, needing to see those incredible, mischievous eyes of hers looking up at him, breath hitting her nose, watching how her eyelashes brush her cheeks. He leans his forehead against her.

“Am I…” he swallows, “Am I reading this right?” He’s certain he is, but he needs to hear her say it, needs permission to lean down, to press his lips against her own and _take_ and _give,_ and _take_ some more. A smile crosses her lips. She knows.

It’s her. Her that makes the move, that stops swaying, flexes her fingers with a firmer grip on his shoulder. Breathing out shaky but sure, she steps closer and leans up, locking her perfect lips with his, and the world is in _Technicolor_.

Nothing feels close enough, but he suddenly, for the first time ever, truly understands why kissing was invented. Because his chest is constricting, breaths becoming acidic and short, and he needs her _closer_ , huffing out air through his nostrils. Lips soft and wet, his hands, one still on her waist, the other placed on the side of her face, pulling her as close as possible, _feeling_ as her gentle palms bracket his face. She huffs a sound out and gets off her tiptoes, eyes still momentarily closed.

Eyelashes fluttering open, Sam watches her, his hands sliding down to her waist, gentle but holding her steadily. Hers fall on his chest, and it feels so good it’s almost _painful_ to finally be this close, this warm.

Fingertips brushing her hair back in an excuse to touch her face a little, thumb and forefinger holding her chin for a moment, and she takes it as a prompt to look up at him, and that’s not why he did it, but her gaze _floors_ him. Breath shaky, her fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt.

He can’t help it, can’t wait anymore, he’s dizzy from the whisky, dizzy from her honey lips, her glittering eyes, he ducks down again, harsher this time, and a forced breath leaves her, surprised. Hands now fisting his shirt, and he’s leaning a little over her, pressing her completely against him, fingers ducking under her shirt to feel her skin against his, and she gasps hotly at the contact.

Lips leaving hers, pressing sloppy kisses on her cheek, down the curve of her jaw, the cut of it, lower, down her neck, and she leans her head back, mouth wide open, and her perfume is so much warmer, more intense right here, and he decides to stay, to suck a mark into her skin, right under her small mole. He licks at it.

“Bed,” he mumbles, a sort of question, he’s not sure. Leaving room for her to stop him, but that doesn’t seem likely. She groans in response, a protest to having to pull away from him for only half a minute to get to her room.

“Too far,” she protests and he laughs a little. Unfortunately for her he wants to do this right, and the distance won’t stop him.

Stepping impossibly closer, he grips her waist tightly. “ _Jump_ ,” he mumbles back against her lips and she grins at his silliness.

“Don’t drop me,” said with a breathy gasp that takes the edge off her warning, and she does as told with the support of his hands on her back, thighs wrapping around his torso tightly. He places his palm on the curve of her ass, other arm wrapping around her waist, pressing her against him tighter than ever before, no air between them, _finally_.

A moment of stillness as he looks up at her. Nose brushing hers just a little as she takes a moment to breathe from the new vantage point, hair fallen down around his face, limiting his eyesight to her, solely, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

She grins. Leans down, captures his lips, hands cupping his face gently. Eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. She smells so _fucking good_ , this fruity kind of perfume, soft, sugary, his mouth waters with it.

He doesn’t quite remember carrying her to the bedroom, but he’s aware he’s kicking the door closed and pressing her up against it. Her hands now on his neck, cupping it, resting his chin on her thumbs and tilting it up to her, tongues dancing, before he pulls away, buries his face in her neck and licks and sucks, can _feel_ how she tilts her head against the door, slightly towards him to trap him so close to her. Hands fisting his shirt at his back, his hair, tugging at it gently.

He really can’t help himself, supporting both their weight against her door, arms embracing her around her back, palms splayed on it, pelvis involuntarily grinding against hers, and something, a sound, breathy and sudden and surprised, spills from her mouth. His dick twitches.

He has to fucking have her _yesterday._

Hands back on her ass, he pulls away from the wall, turns around and lowers her on the bed, moving with her up to the pillow.

She only just… stares at him, pupils blown, breaths deep. Elbows by her head, her legs spread and him right between them and he _belongs_ there, he knows. A moment of silence, stillness, gaze intense, shared between them.

So many things he wants to say. How beautiful she is, how her eyes are _glowing_ with emotions, how hot he feels, being looked at this way. How he’s so fucking enamoured with her, with her smell, her eyes, her hands, her body, everything about her. The words clog his throat, ache to the touch, so he keeps them, to be expressed at a better time

He leans back down, settling his nose beside hers, lips a hair away, and he can feel them part, her air mingling with his again, and he levels her mouth with hers again. Her hands go to his waist, firmly feeling the skin from over his shirt, fingers gripping a little as their tongues tangle.

Somehow, she fumbles most of the buttons open, flannel pushed off his shoulders roughly, the last button ripping away from the shirt. Immediately her hands slide to his sides, and it punches the air out of him, breaths short, mouth open over hers, and she licks into it, catching his attention again. Before he can move further, she pushes his shoulders, crawling right on top of him, and he sits up with her, helping her pull her shirt off and settle on top of him, ripping his shirt from his arms finally.

As more skin reveals itself, he licks at it, wet paths down the center of her chest, up the lovely, now slightly sweaty columns of her neck, the edge of her jaw. Her hands bury in his hair, sitting comfortably on his lap, gasping a prayer to the ceiling as his teeth ghost over a sensitive spot, not biting much, nipping, and she _shudders_.

When she looks back down to him, he’s got his hands on her back, splayed wide, and he lets her trace a couple scars on his chest, on his broad shoulders. He only breathes when she ducks down to trace them with her tongue. He buries his nose on the side of her head.

“I can’t imagine,” she tells him . The pain, she means. She can’t imagine the pain, mental and physical that he’s gone through. But Sam doesn’t like to think about it that much. So he changes the subject.

It only takes a deft flick of his fingers to unclasp her bra, straps loosening and he pulls one away with his teeth, making her pant just a little. He stares right into her eyes while she takes the other one off herself, tossing the bra elsewhere. A glance spared at her chest, hands cupping her breasts, thumbs flicking over the nipple gently, and she traces his jaw a little. Watching as his lips descend on her chest, sucking at her nipples, biting, one and then the other, hips involuntarily swiveling, grinding down against his briefly, but the groan seems to be enough for her.

Somehow she’s on her back again now, Sam carving a path with his mouth down her body, meeting her eyes, lustful and feral with a kind of intensity that he’s never seen before, but looks amazing on her, directed _at_ him. His hands work the button of her jeans open. Her chest heaves. He tongues the elastic of her panties, skin hot right under it. With a little help, her lifting her hips, he pulls her pants off, taking the socks with. He trails kisses up her leg as he moves up to her.

“ _Look at you_ ,” he mumbles against her, a Cheshire grin crossing his lips. She groans, gripping the sheets. “So worked up.” Hot air from his mouth hits her center, and she looks like she wants to kill him. “I’ve barely touched you,” he sounds proud in his own ears.

“Don’t I fucking know it,” she spits, and it only makes him grin wider. He teases her a little more, fingering the elastic, licking right above it. Something flicks in her eyes, he can practically see her thoughts. With a hand in his hair, she tugs him up. He resists a little.

“Save it for later,” she tells him, brushing some hair from his forehead. “I gotta have _you_. Now.” Sam understands and lets her pull him up. He comes back above her, an elbow by her head, kissing her hard, while she struggles a little with his belt and metallic button, helping him kick off his underwear with his jeans, and then he’s in her hand and he can’t help the sound that comes out of his mouth. “Yeah, that’s right,” she laughs a little. “So hot for me, baby, so fucking hard.” He gasps as she flicks her thumb over his head, panting while her lips kiss trails down his neck. She leans up to his ear. “All because of me, huh?”

He growls, rips her panties off her legs, and places his fingers over her wet pussy, finding her clit and drawing tight little circles. Her rhythm on his cock falters, as she gasps, legs instinctively trying to close at the sudden sensation, only tightening around him. Her eyes sort of roll back in her head, shut involuntarily as he pushes two fingers into her. Heel of his palm brushing her small mound at the same time, as he thrusts in and out, slowly at first, picking up the pace and adding another finger.

“Quit fucking around,” she says and he grins, pressing upward a little, finding that spot, making her arch her back a little. “You sure you want me to do that?” She only lets a noise out from her mouth, breathy and loud. Sam rests his forehead on the center of her chest, feeling her muscles tremble. “Come on, baby. You’re close, already, come on.” He drops a kiss on the corner of her mouth. “Come for me, baby.”

“S-Sam, ple- oh _fuck,”_ He speeds up, thumb brushing her clit with purpose and her hands, one buries in his hair, roughly tugging at it, the other gripping his wrist to stay buried inside her as she _bucks_ and folds, with a loud sound straight from her chest and Sam has to keep her hips down with his.

“That’s my girl,” he says, and he keeps whispering dirty things right on her skin. She trembles, keeps him as close to her as humanly possible as he carries her through her orgasm, dropping kisses all over the skin of her chest, feeling her heave right under his lips.

Soon, she’s coming down from her high, pulling him up to her and kissing him roughly, gasping into his mouth in an attempt to get her breath back. Her hands wander, cover his ass and pull him against her harshly, a sound of surprise leaving his lips, muffled by her mouth on his.

“So desperate for –“

“Shut up and fuck me,” she cuts him off, fumbling with her bedside drawer and flinging a condom his way. Sam laughs, leans on his haunches, fumbling to tear the packaging off, and rolling it over his dick. “Eloquent,” he comments with a little smile.

He takes a second, a single second, to take her in, naked, legs spread around him, hair tangled, eyes blown wide, and yeah she looks as desperate as he feels, and that’s comforting, to say the least. He gives her a sweet smile and crawls over her, stealing a moment to feel her nimble fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him right over her, how the skin of her thighs is heavenly wrapped around his waist, and right there, he sheds whatever expectation he had.

Because yeah, it’s sex, just sex. It’s not a performance, and maybe, just maybe, he can be himself, truly himself, can succumb to the rawness of every nerve ending under his skin, and trust in her to see him as he is, a man who can’t get her out of his fucking head, trust her to love him like that.

It feels like a weight, shoved off his shoulders, melted through the drainpipes, and he sinks closer to her, pressing every inch of his hard chest against her soft one.

He holds himself, lines up, and slowly, not breaking eye contact, enters her.

With the deep breath she takes, eyelids shut, head thrown back, she obliterates any air between them, and it’s the hottest thing Sam’s ever felt and seen. She’s so tight, so good, so soft and hard and smells like sweat and strawberries –or mangos?- and _him._ What the fuck else could he ask for, than to be here, in this moment, in this bed, with her, with every sense overwhelmed with nothing but _her._

As he moves, she lifts her hips to meet him half way, grips his back, his left ass cheek, as if trying to fuse him with her, make them one, more than they already are. His chest rumbles with every breath and sound that comes out of him, and she pulls his head down to her neck, where he can do nothing but bite her skin, trying not to completely fucking _lose it_ , pumping his hips, slowly at first, faster as time moves with them.

He pulls out slow, back in again and she gasps hotly, igniting sparks in his chest and stomach. “Sam,” she breathes, and makes him feel like his spirit is out of his fucking body, like he’s about to faint from how hard his heart is beating. He groans. “I’ve got you.”

He mouths words, words he forgets as they leave his chest, the last of his defenses to maintain coherent thoughts, as something primal, animalistic takes over him. She kisses his shoulder, and it almost burns with how good it feels to have her lips on him, so he moves his head above her again and kisses her.

It’s weak, but he feels it, the push at his shoulder, and he grins against her. He kisses her some more and then follows her lead, falls on his back without breaking contact, and it seems to hit new angles, because she moans _loud_ this time, hands planted on his chest. She takes a second, shivering a little, stares down at him like she has a plan, and she rises and sinks _down_ , deeper than before, and Sam’s eyes shut involuntarily. He groans loud, and she plants her hands on his chest to feel it, fingers playing a little with the hairs there.

His hands fall to her hips gently, not guiding, just keeping her close, as she pulls off and then back down again, and again, and again. Adding a swivel to the movement that pulls noises out of both of them, and he pushes up to meet her hips. Eyes opening, he looks at her with a glint in his eyes, and her head hits the pillow again.

Still driving deep inside her, he goes faster now, as her legs wrap around him tightly, clinging to him. He digs his forearms under her shoulders, his knees into the mattress, thrusting inside her fast, and her walls tighten. “ _Sam,”_ a warning that she’s close, and her hand goes between them, rubbing at her clit. It’s too much, too hot, and as she arches her back and clamps around him, Sam, too, comes. He spills inside her with a loud groan of her name.

Sweaty, he collapses on her, not entirely, keeping his weight off as much as he can, and she twitches, shudders.

The room is quiet, and coming back into focus as they pant, coming down from their high. He breathes a little, kissing the side of her head, the cut of her jaw, her cheek, until she grins and opens her eyes to look back at him. They share a smile, a small chuckle from her, as she wraps her arms loosely around his neck and pulls his lips down to hers.

It feels so good and familiar, to kiss between clashing teeth, because they’re both grinning. He feels her hands tangle in his hair and he pulls away a little, nuzzling his nose with hers, still smiling, kissing her cheek and pulling away a little. With a hand on her hip, he pulls out of her, pulling the condom off, tying it, and throwing it in the bin across the room. It goes in. Sam collapses next to her, ducking under the covers and pulling her in his arms.

She kisses his chest and curls close to him with a deep sigh. “I’m beat,” she says, and it only makes Sam laugh, turn to look at her. She smiles this lovely little smile up towards him, biting her lip, eyelids heavy as she blinks them slowly. “Stay?” He blinks, takes a deep breath, he really can’t stop fucking smiling. He loves this, loves her like this, worn out, sated and warm against him, limbs tangled together.

“Yeah,” he says, pushing some hair away from her face, a kiss dropped on her forehead. “Okay.”


End file.
